


at the summit

by withnorthernlights



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nationals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withnorthernlights/pseuds/withnorthernlights
Summary: After everything stops spinning, they're all that's left.or: bokuaka post-nationals, fukurodani versus ichibayashi.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	at the summit

**Author's Note:**

> takes place right after nationals + headcanon that akaashi uses Big Words. pretty considerable manga spoilers as well,, you have all been warned ::). i actually had to search up who won nationals for bokuto's third year/akaashi's second year, but i don't know how i forgot this to begin with… also someone please tell me who ichibayashi high even is??
> 
> also will admit i looked up the names of //everyone else// on fukurodani's team except bokuto and akaashi but it doesn't really matter if you don't know who they are skdlfj.
> 
> originally for my fav @AmirTwo1 on twitter again,, PLEASE check out her art i'm obsessed with it!!

When it's all over, the world doesn't stop.

The fluorescent lights are still glaring down at them. The crowd is still screaming. The world is still looking, watching, waiting. Just like every other team in Japan, they've spent the entirety of the last year believing this moment would _be_ their whole world. Although it happens much later than it does for most, their epiphany still comes––if you can even call it that. It's a simple truth that floors them completely: they aren't the main characters of this story after all.

By all means, they did their best. They stretched the match out to a full five sets, so it can't be said that they didn't go down without a fight. To prove this very point, each member on Ichibayashi's team looks drained of every ounce of energy, jerseys slick with sweat and faces haggard with exhaustion––just like Fukurodani's team. But their eyes are different. They're sparkling. Too tired to do anything but throw their arms around one another, fists pumping in the air for one last time. Ironically, all of Ichibayashi is crying too (albeit for opposite reasons).

Akaashi doesn't realize he's crying until his vision blurs. _They've really lost, huh?_

Washio and Sarukui appear next to him suddenly, each boy clasping one of his shoulders. "Hey, Vice Captain," Washio says, face as impassive as always. "It's time to line up." Akaashi wants to laugh aloud but also wants to keep crying. Why are the third years comforting _him_? Why, when this is the last game of their entire high school career? Especially when he's the vice captain and responsible for the team, not to mention being a _second year_ who still has another chance at Nationals––shouldn't he be the one helping them? Akaashi has no right to grieve right now.

He knows why, though. There's another reason they won't accept his consolations yet. There’s something more important to be done first. The one who's hurting most right now––that's who he's really responsible for. As he walks toward the end of the court to thank the audience, he can vaguely feel Konoha and Komi staring him down, though their own eyes are filling with tears as well. _Go_ , they seem to say. _And we'll be here for you._ All of the other third years are telling him the same thing: he can entrust them with the rest of the team; he just has to go where he's needed most right now. And so he does.

In hindsight, Akaashi realizes how twisted this situation is: the captain has to be held up in the face of a loss, rather than holding up the others, but he can't find it in himself to care. That is simply the way their team functions, and he wouldn't trade it for anything. He's grateful that the other third years have always viewed him as an equal rather than just as an immature kouhai; they haven't made him call them _senpai_ since he first joined the team. While he does hold honorifics in a higher regard, Akaashi agrees with Kenma in that he doesn't really see the point behind the class-system that's apparent in all Japanese sports teams, and even in schools in general. Besides, if he had followed the conventions, stuck solely to those his age, he never would have been able to get to where he is now.

"Bokuto-san."

(Just because he doesn’t agree with the strict class hierarchy in the sports world doesn’t mean he won’t show utter respect for those he looks up to. Like Bokuto. It’s this fine line he balances on between formality and intimate trust that allows him to slip between the cracks of Bokuto’s explosive first impressions, reaching the true meaning within. No one else has been able to do it so far.)

In one last show of strength, Bokuto doesn't release the thin mask of indifference on his face until they step off the court and turn the corner to where their two managers are waiting, already wiping furiously at their eyes as they drop into deep bows. Perhaps others would not consider a manager “worthy” of this sadness, but Akaashi knows they’ve poured as much of themselves into the Fukurodani Volleyball Team as he has. He gives their arms a gentle brush with the tips of his fingers, lingering in a moment of solidarity. These girls are part of his family, too. Everyone here is. Yamaji-sensei just gives Akaashi a brief nod, whacking Bokuto soundly on the back before turning around to address the rest of the team. "I'm so very proud of you," he begins, and Akaashi doesn't think he's imagining the tremble in their coach's voice. Yamaji-sensei goes on, and "You have all played incredibly well––" is all he lets himself listen to before hurrying off after Bokuto. 

“I just don’t understand, Akaashi.”

"Bokuto-san."

"What kind of a captain–what kind of a captain am I?" Bokuto is speaking into the air in front of him, addressing Akaashi even though he's resolutely looking away.

"Bokuto-san, you are an amazing captain. You've held us all together through this whole tournament, and everyone looks up to you more than anyone."

"What kind of an ace am I? An _ace_ ––I'm supposed to be the _ace_. I shouldn't even be allowed to be a wing spiker with the way I was blocked out there."

"Bokuto-san, the tenacity you showed up until the very end of the fifth set was incredibly admirable. The whole crowd was in awe of your power and endurance. You're a nationally ranked volleyball player for a reason––no one doubts you. I've never doubted you for a second since the day you first let me set to you."

"Akaashi, how can you even call me a volleyball player? How can you call what I just played _volleyball?_ I just––"

" _Bokuto-san_. Stop, please." They both stop walking. 

The look on Bokuto's face is… painful. He'd already been disintegrating slowly, his resolve and moral left in tatters like ripped pieces of fabric. But now, his eyes are shining under the lights of the massive gym, brimming with his first tears of the entire tournament. "A–Akaashi." His voice breaks. 

Bokuto knows he is… abnormal, to say the least. He considers himself fortunate to have found such a kind and easygoing crowd in the Fukurodani Volleyball Club, with a coach who treats him like a son and teammates who laugh off his mood swings like they're everyday occurrences (they are). He has underclassmen who only choose to see his achievements, and he's even recognized as a talented spiker throughout the nation due to his wonderful team allowing his talents to shine. His fellow classmates have long since grown used to his carefree attitude, and his setter spoils him both on and off the court. Despite everything that should have set him back, he's succeeded.

But still, he knows he's different. He knows that when he breaks down in the middle of an important game, he throws unnecessarily weighted stress upon the shoulders of the other third years, the ones who know him best. He knows the teams the compete against gawk and wonder, _How is this guy the captain of a powerhouse team?,_ knows that they're thinking _I could do so much better._ His whole life, he's been told to _shut up_ , to _sit still_ , to _calm down_. Everywhere he's gone, he's been told that. In the Volleyball Club, these things just happen to be said with more love than disdain. Their tolerance for him is higher than most, but everyone has a limit. Honestly, he's gotten used to it by now. He doesn’t blame them for this.

But Akaashi's never snapped at him like that before.

Akaashi's… different. Maybe not the same kind of different that Bokuto is, but different nonetheless. He's reserved and cautious in the way that other high-functioning intellectuals Bokuto can't understand are, which often fools others into thinking that Akaashi is like them. But this simply isn't true. Akaashi is like _him._ Akaashi is special. Akaashi notices things most people wouldn't, and he understands what makes Bokuto feel the way he does like no one else ever has. Akaashi is different.

Right?

But now Akaashi has reached the end of his line; Akaashi is going to yell at him and then walk away from him because he's _sick_ of Bokuto's behavior, _sick to his stomach_ of Bokuto's mood swings and unpredictability and childish antics. That limit to his tolerance, the seemingly unreachable ceiling to Akaashi’s never-ending patience––it seems to be growing closer. Bokuto feels his breathing pick up––his body, which had been nearly overheating just a moment ago from the frantic game, is suddenly cold. His hands are still sweaty, but now they feel clammy and unsteady, like he's locked hands with a ghost. _Terrible,_ the ghost whispers into his ear as it squeezes his sweaty, clammy, gross fingers. _This is terrible._ The draft from the vent right above them sends shivers up his spine.

"Bokuto-san, please don't––"

_Don't cry. Don't say those things. I don't want to hear them. Sure, I'm proud of you because you're the number four ace in the nation, but a captain shouldn't break down like this in front of their underclassman. It's exhausting having to constantly babysit you day in and day out, and I need some time to grieve too––_

"––please don't look down on yourself."

_What?_

"Akaashi?"

"I understand that you're hurting right now––please believe me, I really do understand that, but you can't allow yourself to let go of everything you've accomplished so far, everything you’ve helped _us_ accomplish. We've all worked so hard, and I've seen how much care and passion you put into this sport. You are an incredible volleyball player, a phenomenal ace, and the best captain and mentor I could have ever asked to work with. Just as you've told our younger players and the first years on the Karasuno team, making mistakes doesn't make _you_ a mistake. Once you have your moment, there's nowhere to go but up. And I know you've had that moment. Hell, I had it with you, remember? Volleyball has never been the same for us since. 

"Just look at everything Fukurodani has done to get to this day; we've continued a legacy that will live on in the hearts of players to come, and I am sure that many of them will join this very team with the sole thought of _I want to become like Bokuto Koutarou_. You overwhelm me every single day with the scintillating brightness you exude and the joy you're able to spread. I admire you so, so much, Bokuto-san, and I truly wish you could see yourself the way that I see you."

It's not really clear who started crying first, but they definitely both are now. Akaashi's hands are shaking, eyes pointed down, while Bokuto is gaping in unadulterated awe. Akaashi doesn't… say a lot of his thoughts aloud. It's obvious that this speech takes a lot out of him, especially when he's still reeling from the emotional impact of the just-finished game. Tears slide like raindrops down both of their faces, and neither makes a move to wipe them away. Just when Bokuto tells himself he's done being blown away by the miracle that is this beautiful, wonderful boy in front of him, Akaashi slaps him in the face with another impossibly sweet remark––and another, and another, and another––that strike arrows through his heart, rivaling Cupid himself. Although it stings like a shot straight to the heart, Akaashi’s voice and those perfect, melodious words are a salve that slicks cleanly over his wounds. This is how Akaashi truly sees him? 

Bokuto doesn't think he _needs_ Akaashi in his life like he needs air to breathe, but he'd be damned if he said he didn't want Akaashi there with every fiber of his being. Akaashi is his anchor, his sunshine, and quite possibly his everything. More than possibly. Although he definitely should have figured this out sooner, Bokuto realizes here and now that Akaashi Keiji is his whole entire world. And he loves Akaashi, loves the way Akaashi just _knows_ every emotion and anxious thought that swirls around his mind, too cluttered for him to even make sense of at times. Akaashi isn't a genius––not a hellbent prodigy like Kageyama or a supernova catalyst like Oikawa––but he's everything Bokuto has ever needed. He’s everything Bokuto has ever told himself he’s wanted. Bokuto looks behind his shoulder to check all the time even though he doesn't need to, even though he knows that Akaashi will always be there for some reason to right him when he stumbles. He loves this boy, loves him to the ends of the known universe and even past that––

Bokuto suddenly realizes that he's been saying this all aloud when Akaashi clutches his arm with both hands, still shaking violently as he tries to find the right words. 

"You're everything to me, too," he says quietly, still not looking Bokuto in the eyes. His voice sounds hoarse, still completely winded from the uncharacteristic outburst just a few moments ago. "I've never been the same since I joined this team and met you, and I'm so grateful for that." Finally, when Akaashi has gathered himself enough to make proper eye contact, he takes a few deep, shaky breaths and motions with his hands, murmuring, "Come here, Bokuto-san."

"I like it when you call me 'Bokuto-san,'" Bokuto says while enveloping Akaashi into what is perhaps the tightest hug he's ever given (and he gives pretty strong hugs). "But I think I'd also like it if you called me Koutarou."

"Hm. I like the way you say my name, too, Bokuto-san."

”Akaashi!”

They've hugged before, especially in the aftermath of important games like this one, whether it be out of uncontrolled joy or anguish––they've always shared their emotions together. This time is no different, but the emotion at hand is special, something just for them. Bokuto is an incredible hugger; he’s bulky and muscled, but he knows how to be just tender enough to melt the hearts of those he’s around. Akaashi thinks for a moment as he wraps his arms around Bokuto's sturdy frame, thinks about the way Bokuto has always looked at him and considers this development to be not that much of a surprise. He was actually thinking of confessing first, if they had won today. Since they'd lost, he'd thought that it would be too many emotions for too short of a period of time, but Bokuto had swiftly proved him wrong.

"A- _ka-a-_ shi," Bokuto whisper-shouts, distorting the word in his mouth as he rolls the syllables around and dusts each sound with pure wonder. "Akaashi," he repeats, "I think I'm going to continue volleyball. Like, even after high school, and after college, too."

Akaashi smiles, lips flicking upward from where they’re pressed into the joint between Bokuto’s chest and neck. "Bokuto-san, isn't that something you'd decided already? Volleyball is extremely important to you."

"I think I've always known that, but I didn't fully make up my mind until today. I guess I just didn't realize how important it really was––how important all of this is."

"I'm glad you figured that out for yourself."

"Like, I don't really need volleyball, you know? But also, I guess I do need it. Kind of like I need you."

And Bokuto looks at him, peers down the few centimeters that separates their faces because they're standing so close, Akaashi rocking slightly up onto the balls of his feet to close just a bit more of the distance. They're wrapped up in one another, legs shaking from exhaustion and eyes dry from crying, but Bokuto is looking at him like he's a god descending from the heavens, and Akaashi promises himself right now that he'll do his very best never to let go. (People often think he’s the one “putting up with” Bokuto, but if they saw him right now, covered and held and entirely wrapped in Bokuto’s arms––what would they say then?)

”Thank you for helping me, Akaashi. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

”I know it wasn’t easy for you to say those things either, Bokuto-san. But it’s okay. It’s all okay now.”

Bokuto lets Akaashi pull him to the restroom where he rinses off his face, streaked still with tears and sweat. Afterwards, in return, Akaashi allows Bokuto to swing his arms around Akaashi's shoulders, holding him from behind and brushing kisses against his cheeks. They stumble back with Bokuto still practically on Akaashi's back. In the distance, there's a surprised yelp that sounds suspiciously like the half-Russian boy from Nekoma, followed by a sickeningly precise _thwack_ and smug silence. They approach Fukurodani, Bokuto's smile stretching broad enough to split the clouds that have covered the atmosphere, shining a beacon of precious light down on their underclassmen like he's always been able to do. _Look_ , his shining eyes seem to say, _look what I've got with me now!_ Akaashi, ever the gentleman, slots their fingers together and tilts his head into a cordial semi-bow.

The rest of the team doesn't even say anything, save for a few shrieks from the first years. Yamaji-sensei just looks _so_ incredibly proud. Each of the third years comes over and gives Bokuto a painful sounding _slap_ to the back, then to Akaashi, an appreciative, understanding nod. “That’s our vice captain,” Kohona says softly, looking at them with an almost unbearable fondness. This almost sets Sarukui into another round of tears.

Kaori and Yukie are smiling, whispering together behind cupped hands. (Akaashi can't quite hear them, but it sounds a lot like "I really don't know who's luckier here, between the two of them," which is a little confusing to him because shouldn't that be obvious?) They don’t say anything more, just giggle and wave at him as they wipe their tear-streaked faces, so Akaashi waves this off as another thing he’ll never be able to understand about other people.

To the side, in the quickly emptying stadium, the Fukurodani team flag beams down its message, ever-present and with an incredible type of dignity. Their season has ended, but the comforting banner of black and gold seems to smile at the students. In the distance, there is the subtle chatter of excited volleyball fans discussing the nuances of the last match as they leave.

The world moves on. In due time, they’ll move on as well, spinning like flurries of wind in the sky until they burn themselves out on the genuine high of it all. (It doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go, in all honesty.) Above them, Fukurodani's motto stands proud and true.

_Pour all your soul into each ball._

“All your soul.” “Each ball.” No matter where they each decide to go, they’ll carry these words with them for the rest of their lives.

They've lost, but they've undoubtedly won as well. For the rest of the second and first years, everyone knows Akaashi––as the lone rising senior––will put his all into whipping them into shape to avenge his upperclassmen. For those who are leaving, it was an overall satisfying game. There isn’t a single doubt about that. They've left all their regrets and sorrows on the court, in this gym, and it is time to move on. There really is no telling what's to come, but Bokuto knows that as long as he lives, he'll remember this day as one of his best.


End file.
